


Crossed Beams

by orphan_account



Category: Gillian Anderson/David Duchovny - Fandom, The X-Files RPF, gillovny - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:58:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6315748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a love story but not a neat one... Gillian relives her turbulent relationship with David from 1993 - 2016+ My imaginings of all that happens away from the public eye; from screaming rows to tender moments, dark times, laughter and shared pain. Gillovny AF. will be smutty where appropriate. Total fiction based on real people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crossed Beams: Chapter 1 - First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> This is a big project, I'll update as aften as I can! It's my imaginings woven into a framework of truth/hearsay to make what I hope will be a fulfilling narrative like the one I always crave for these crazy kids. I'm making a fair amount of effort not to deviate from actual timelines but ultimately will place the continuity/quality of the story ahead of total accuracy so please excuse any fuck ups! -R

 

_It's just like the show. Two bright beams of light in a dark dark room. We try to move away from each other. We try to illuminate other things but we always end up in the same place, the two lights meeting, drawn together and burning brighter than either could on their own. We should turn the lights on, reveal the truth we claim to seek. But everything we are is here in the dark, light bouncing off the secrets we share, beams crossing for a moment and then devastating dark. It's always been this way, right from the start and I'm starting to think we'll never change._

 

* * *

 

**_LA: 1993._ **

 

It hadn't been a good day.

Actually. If we're being fucking honest and I've sworn to do more of that then it hadn't been a very good year. When I'd dreamed of acting as a messy haired teenager I'd seen myself on stage in great dramas, riding Tennessee Williams Streetcar, mourning Romeo or maybe making some seriously good movies. I hadn't thought it would be easy but I hadn't known it was going to be this hard.

I hadn't known about the lumpy couches in friends apartments or the endless rejection, the tiny parts and the tinier pay packets. Admitting I was wrong has never been a strong suit of mine, and having it get back to the kids who'd given me and my dreams "that look" that I'd been wrong about my ability was one of the only things keeping me here. That and my agent. One thing I had achieved was getting someone to represent me. For now at least. Everytime I heard his voice on the phone I felt a sick mix of excitement and terror. Excitement that maybe something had worked out or come up. Terror that maybe he was calling to drop me. Lately the terror had been the stronger emotion, I hadn't booked anything since that awful chicken commercial and I knew if I was getting antsy then they were too, if I wasn't getting paid they weren't. It was pretty simple really.

He's calling now. Must be him. The only people with this number are the agency and my family and it's too early for an Anderson call around. And the nausea is strong. LA was a gamble and it looks like I'm going bust.

 

"Gill?"

"I'm here". I should probably play nice and make pleasantries but I'm too damn nervous.

"I've had something come up. It's at Fox, kinda a weird one. I think it's a sci-fi show. I know you've never really been keen on TV but-" his tone says all that he doesn't need to about the state of my empty schedule.

"I think I'm past the point of being picky don't you? Sounds like it's a long shot anyway. What's the part?" 

"One of the leads. FBI Agent, medical doctor investigating spooky stuff. Shall I send it over?" 

"Can't hurt but is it really worth it. A network lead on my resume seems..... optimistic?" Even that's a generous word for my chances.

"I know. But they want unknowns. It'd be a helluva coup Gill."

"Then you'd better send it over. I'm guessing there's some chunky jargon that's going to melt my brain more than this heat."

 

And I wasn't wrong. There were a lot of long words. I was going to need a medical dictionary if I got this part. No. I was going to need a medical dictionary when I got this part. Because I wanted it. I hadn't expected to want it, the show was weird and seemed to involve a lot of running about in the dark and yelling about aliens. But between the autopsies and the running I've found a woman I want to play. Someone I haven't seen on TV yet; smart, gutsy and humble and completely unaware how awesome she is. And I want to step into her shoes and show her to the world. If I happen to show them how good I am on the way the that would be a bonus.

I'm not sure when it happened but something flipped in my head and I decided that I was going to be Dana Scully, that one day she'd meet the sparsely written Fox Mulder and that together we'd make a show that would be something different to what had existed before. Whenever it happened, I knew I wouldn't be sleeping that night.

I think maybe if I'd realised how many night's sleep I would lose over Dana Scully I might have put the script to one side and given up. But I didn't and as I unravelled the dialogue, undressed the character and tried her on for size I started building a world that would change everything about me.

 

* * *

 

It was hot in the corridor of the Fox lot. I sat on the stairs, the edges of the treads pressing lines into the back of my legs as I read over and over the lines I knew better than I knew my own name. Somewhere in the back of my head I thought how ridiculous it was that one of the biggest studios in the US didn't even have a proper waiting room with something as basic as chairs. It seemed that I wasn't the only one thinking this. One of the Mulders, the taller one, was gesticulating and bemoaning the under equipped space to two of the other Scullys. Except instead of calling it a corridor her kept calling it an anteroom.

It was starting to piss me off actually. Not just his stupid word choice but the glee with which he loudly made his statements, his voice the one cutting through the murmur of lines and the buzz of nerves. The other Scullys looked pretty impressed with him and he knew it which only irritated me more. I'd seen him somewhere before, Twin Peaks maybe, and couldn't deny that he was what I had imagined Mulder would look like, certainly more so than the other guy still in the race. But he was irritating.

I turned my attention back to the script but soon found my eyes wandering again. This time to the Scullys not talking to noisy would-be-Mulder. There were five of us still in the running, I was quietly confident after a series of really good early auditions and a good connection with the show creator but I knew today was make or break. I was by far the shortest but that was nothing new, I think I was probably also the least "classically" beautiful. Three of the others were Hollywood blonde and pretty. One wore glasses and they made her look kind of like a sexy librarian. I wondered if that was deliberate. The other girl was a brunette and I guess if I had to pick one of the others then I'd have chosen her. But I'd read Scully so many times that when I conjured up a picture of her I could only see myself. I wonder if they felt the same.

"You wanna run lines?"

I'd zoned out and not noticed the anteroom guy coming over to me. If I had I might have put my walkman in or gone to the bathroom. I really wasn't in the mood to chat and I certainly wasn't going to fawn in the the way his lopsided smirk seemed to encourage. But he was here now and I might as well give it a go.

"Sure." I gestured the step next to me and down one but he ignored me and joined me on my step, inches taller and very very close to me. I pretended not to notice the slight contact between our hips and elbows, shuffling around slightly to offer him my script.

He shook his head. "I'm off book". The smirk again. So cocky.

"So am I!" My voice came out louder than I'd expected and I flushed involuntarily, irritation and embarrassment always showed on my pale English skin and his chuckle told me that he'd noticed which only made it worse. My calm collected audition persona was falling to pieces and I made a mental note that if I lost the part I'd hunt this guy down and make him pay for it. What right did he have to act superior or to tease me, it wasn't professional and it was messing with my balance.

"Nobody but the FBIs most unwanted!"

I looked at him blankly. I'd been much too busy plotting his downfall to realise he'd started the scene.

"C'mon Scully. I thought you said you were off book!". There was laughter in his voice and he was really pissing me off now.

"I am "Mulder" I was just thinking that your emphasis on that line wasn't what I expected. You sound too...glib."

"And it bites! Any other corrections for me?" His nonchalance was convincing but a slight widening of his eyes indicated he was surprised I had the balls to make such a comment. I smiled tightly.

Now we were even.

"I think that's all. Up to you of course I just wasn't expecting it. Start over?"

  
For a second I thought he was going to argue but instead he just shook out his shoulders and started the scene again. This time he sounded wearier.

He sounded like Mulder.

 

* * *

 

I walked out of the testing room drained of everything but the basic ability to put one foot in front of the other. The scene had been intense. After some introductions to the studio sorts, annoying Mulder and I had locked eyes and fallen right into the vibe I'd sensed when we'd read outside. It was curious and intimate and antagonistic and exactly what I'd imagined at home prepping the scene. We were feeling each other out as actors which worked perfectly for the scene where we met at the FBI building for the first time. I tried to hide the fact that he made me feel on edge and he seemed to be looking for spots to poke at to get a response from me. There were moments when I lost the edge that separated Scully from Gillian, something that never normally happened this early in the process and as much as I wished it was different a lot of that was thanks to the guy in Mulder's shoes.

I now knew his name, David Duchovny, and that I had been right in the Twin Peaks identification. His easy confidence had lasted once we were done with the scene and delighted the executives in the room. Unless I was a much worse judge of character than I thought I was I was standing next to the new William Fox Mulder on Fox's pilot series, The X Files. I wished I was so certain that he'd just read with the preferred Scully.

The front half of the cramped room I'd mostly recognised. The show's creator and executive producer and people I'd read for before. They smiled encouragingly and I felt like they felt what I was feeling - that this was a chemistry that could sell a show. But further back were the suits and they weren't meeting my eyes. Notebooks were out and writing was happening and if that was where the deciding power lay I felt like I might soon be packing up and moving back home. I'd done my best to exude confidence, to stand tall and make myself heard next to my dominating audition partner but I wasn't sure I'd done enough. After a few general questions about availability they let me go, holding David back to read with the next Scully in line. The other Mulder had been and gone, I hadn't read with him and I didn't think I'd see him again. I didn't even know if I'd see my Mulder again.

That's when the thought that this could all now be over hit me and I wished more than ever that this stupid corridor had chairs. Instead I leaned hard on the wall, controlling my breath as the adrenaline left me and reality set back in. I had everything on the line, only the weeks of prep had distracted me from the extension of my credit limit to pay for the room and without something certain lined up I was running close to empty.

I'm not sure exactly how long I stood there before I was jolted out of my grey thoughts by a light pressure on my shoulder. I spun to find Muld- no David looking at me with a quizzical angle to his eyebrow.

"You really get lost in your thoughts don't you? I've surprised you twice and it's only been a day!".

I grimaced, pushing my mouth out in a way that my mother always warned me against, she said it made me look like a bullfrog. "Normally I hear people coming. You must walk like a ballerina."

"You do not want to see me dance. Trust me. Anyway I have to go back in but I wanted to say well done. I think we did a great job in there"

"Thanks. You were good. They like you a lot". I tried to keep the bitter edge out of my voice, it wasn't his fault the studio had liked him and I was surprised to see his eyes light up at the praise.

"You really think so? I could really use this role you know?" It seemed that even Mr Confident  needed some validation and apparently mine mattered in that moment.

I smiled at him, softening slightly. "I really think so".

"Huh. You know you look totally different when you really smile." And the shit eating grin was back. I should have known that an ego pat would have that effect and now the focus was back on me I was really ready to get out of there. But he wasn't quite done.

"You know Gilly-"

"Gillian"

"Gillian. We should grab a drink later, talk it all over. I feel like we'd have a lot of fun getting to know each other more... thoroughly.. .After all we might end up as costars!"

"I'm busy." My internal defences flashed red and leapt into action at the wink in his voice. I was used to Hollywood guys and I had no intention of blurring professional boundaries on a job I didn't even have yet. "Besides I don't believe in tempting fate."

"So you won't drink with me unless you get the part?" His confusion told me that not many people turned him down.

"Maybe not even then. I've got to get going. Have fun in there."

I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away and tried to stop myself from wondering what his expression was. Whether he was disappointed by my rejection or excited by the challenge the most likely thing was that by tomorrow he'd have forgotten all about the short girl who he lazily hit on. That's something else I'd already learned in Hollywood, flirtations often lasted even less time than jobs did and having been burned once I was now incredibly careful. It didn't matter how sparkly the spark was, how handsome your maybe co-star, you didn't mix business and pleasure without thinking the consequences through.

Or at least that's what I told myself myself more than once as I listed reasons not to turn around and see if he was still watching me walk away.


	2. Crossed Beams: Chapter 2 - Wardrobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gillovny from the very start, Gillians POV.  
> Auditions are over and all that's left to be done is wait and wonder if you could have done anything differently....

**_Two weeks later_ **

I could see the bottom of the chipped mug through the coffee, every last granule in the tin was in the cup and it was still too weak. If I'd had milk I wouldn't have added it but I knew for a fact that the last inch in the carton was sour, like everything in the mini fridge. Like my mood.

It was over a fortnight since the first network meeting and a week since the last contact. I'd stopped expecting the phone to ring, the hope that this long shot might pay off fading to a resignation that it was almost certainly over. There had been three more readings, me, the suits and the silence were the only common factor as I joined a parade of girls shipped in from New York, Vancouver, anywhere that wasn't this motel. It felt as if someone in power wanted anyone who wasn't me.

Chatter via my agent was that Chris Carter wanted me but the network wanted someone else. It felt irrelevant at this point. A couple of times I found myself wondering what David's opinion was, his casting was announced and a voice in the back of my head kept telling me that maybe I should have gone for that drink. That if Mulder had weighed in on my behalf maybe I'd be signed on as Scully. Or at least I might have gotten laid.

I sighed. Even that seemed like wishful thinking right now as I looked down at the watery coffee, the oversize t-shirt and my chipped toenail polish. Sexy blonde librarian girl would never let her pedicure get in such a state. I just wasn't cut out for Hollywood.

The phone jolted me out of my self examination and added a splash of coffee brown to my messy ensemble as I spun too fast to grab the receiver.

"Fuck that's hot - I mean hi?"

"Gill is that you? Is everything okay?" My agent sounded out of breath.

"I just spilt something on myself. What's happening".

"Well right now I'm on the phone to Fox's latest hire, newcomer Gillian Anderson whose contract to play Dana Katherine Scully just landed on my desk."

"Are you fucking kidding me."

"I'm reading from the press release Gill. You did it. I don't exactly know how but I do know that you're going to have to watch your dirty language around all the executives until the ink is dry."

"Fuck!"

"Gillian! Come on now!"

"Sorry I just... Are you fucking serious?"

I heard him sigh down the line, I guess my reactions needed some polish but this kind of thing didn't happen. I still wasn't sure this was really happening.

"How about I give you some time to get used to this and remember some words that aren’t curses. Then we can meet for lunch and go over the contract. It's pretty standard pilot fare but worth talking about. And then there's some pay stuff we need to cover". His tone had slipped from excitement to rational agent voice and I was not there yet.

"Sounds good. Just tell me where. Oh and tell me you're paying. I can pay you back when I'm famous".

He chuckled. "Forget it. This one's on me. Congratulations Gillian. You really worked for this".

And for the first time since I'd stepped off the plane in LA I felt like he was right, I had really worked hard and it had worked out. Raising my half mug to the sunny window I gave myself a little toast. Even the piss poor excuse for a cup of coffee couldn't stop me smiling as I headed to the shower.

 

* * *

  **_Vancouver - March 4th 1993_**

“You owe me a drink”.

Once again my new co-star had managed to get within three feet of me without me seeing him coming although on this occasion I had a pretty good excuse. Foil parcels were hanging over half my face as a wardrobe lady with a mouthful of pins hemmed what seemed like a foot of fabric off the bottom of a polyester pantsuit. I’d been in costume fittings all day, apparently either the wardrobe department hadn’t believed my measurements or the costumes had been ordered before I was cast.

“You really are tiny aren’t you? Even standing on a box!” he continued talking as I tried to decide how to defuse the drink situation without being rude. Though rudeness now seemed more tempting as David breached my personal space and flicked one of the foils on my head, grinning at the noise. “What colour are you going”.

“Auburn-y Red. It could be worse. If they’d wanted black hair I’d have spent the next few weeks looking like Morticia Addams."

"I think red'll suit you. You have the freckles for it at any rate". I instinctively raised my hand to cover my nose. I'd always freckled in the sun and it didn't bother me but somehow him drawing attention to it made me self conscious. It was the first time we'd met since the audition, first contact other than a note of congratulation via his agent and I'd thought I had until shooting started to get my head in order. I couldn't pin down what it was about him that threw me off,  maybe it was how differently we approached things or the knowledge that he was much more experienced than me. A little voice kept telling me it was the lingering excitement of our easy chemistry but I was getting better at shutting it out. Whatever it was I was trying not to let my nerves show and his arrival had made the show feel real. I felt out of my depth in more than just the pants.

It had all been a lot. I'd gone from unemployed in LA to potential series star in Vancouver in a matter of weeks. The contract signing had been the least stressful part, I knew it was standard practice to sign seven years of your life away just in case it was a hit and as an unknown I hadn't been expecting to get as much money as I was. Even though David would be getting almost double, should the series be greenlit I was still eying more money than I'd ever made in just one paycheck. The pilot alone was enough to mean not having to give up on acting so it seemed like a deal worth making. Actually packing up and moving and my stuff to a new country and city had been harder, especially knowing it might all come to nothing and I’d be going right back. I hadn’t put roots down in LA but that didn’t make it easier to be alone in a place where I didn't know anyone and it always seemed to be raining. Everything felt alien which coupled with the anticipation of walking on to that set and delivering the first lines of the weighty, wordy script I'd had delivered was a daunting prospect; one best masked by keeping busy and not thinking about it too hard or too often.

"There you go again. Lost in your thoughts". I'd forgotten I had an audience and it seemed like this conversation wasn’t one I was getting rid of by just zoning out. I lifted a few of the foils with the back of my hand so I could see him, still fucking handsome and still fucking pleased with himself.

"Sorry" I muttered, "I'm still trying to get some lines down and the chemicals on my head seem to be soaking into my brain and making them fall out".

“You do have a lot of jargon. I don’t envy you that. It’s not like it’s the easiest  concept to grasp in the first place is it?” his tone seemed genuine and friendly and meeting his gaze I realised that this was our first real conversation about our project. That maybe I wasn’t the only one freaking out over the unknown.

I shook my head and shrugged, regretting it almost instantly as the ridiculous spectacle of my foils flapping broke our moment of connection and creased his cheeks back into a smile. At least this time it was a genuine smile though.

“Listen G-woman. How about I leave you alone to finish up here and we grab that drink later, talk it all over before we have to make it work on camera?”

I hesitated so he pressed on.

“I’m staying at the W. Come by whenever you’re done and ask for me and I’ll come down.”

I considered for a second but he was right. It did make sense to talk it over and I was sick of spending nights alone with crappy TV in my room. And I was curious about him. But he didn’t need to know that.

“I tell you what” I counter, “I’ll try and come if you promise to stop giving me ridiculous nicknames. We haven’t even started shooting yet!”. I let one of my eyebrows creep up to show I was sort of joking, but not really and was rewarded with another of his proper smiles.

“You’ve got yourself a deal there G- I mean Gillian”.

He stepped aside to let the hairdresser come in to check my colour and by the time she was done he was gone  leaving me alone again with the wardrobe lady, several hundred pins and three more pairs of too-long pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been so supportive of part one of this undertaking. Scenes worked out to make his chapter is a little shorter (it was either 1.5k or 5k!) but I have two more ready which will come out as soon as I make some more progress. Feel free as always to feedback here or on tumblr, I'm open to constructive criticism! Love y'all, -R


	3. Crossed Beams: Chapter 3 - Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casual drinks before shooting begins change the dynamic of Gillian's relationship with her co-star.

By the time I get to the W I’ve talked myself out of and back into this meeting three times. Cautious Gillian is telling me that this is a bad idea, that a hotel is dangerous ground with an attractive, confident guy who has expressed an interest, with whom it could never be as simple as a one time thing. Ballsy Gillian counters with fuck that and fuck him if you’ve a mind to, these are the 90s and who gives a damn. The Gillian in the middle agrees with both and neither of them, she’s cautious and curious but in the end she’s lonely and wants to talk to someone about everything that’s about to happen. 

If that someone happens to step out of the elevator looking freshly shower rumpled and grinning in a way that makes me momentarily forget how to form sentences then I guess that’s just something I’ll have to deal with.

Ten minutes of pleasantries, ordering and small talk finds us curled in a booth at the back of the hotel bar. David kicks his feet up on the seat opposite, he has a talent for appearing comfortable wherever he goes and in a brave moment I slide my shoes off, tucking my feet up under me and lean into the seat as if I’m relaxed. I’m not.  A foot of velvet bench separates our shoulders and I’m aware of every inch of it.

“I know I keep saying this but I really can’t get over how tiny you are. Sitting like that, all curled up, I feel like I could put you in my pocket!” This sort of observation usually annoys me but I let it pass, he sounds frank and amused rather than condescending and I’m too tired to start a fight.

“I wouldn’t advise that.” I reply drily. “I bite.”

“Noted”. I’m pleased that he doesn’t pick up my comment and play it back as an innuendo, it’s too early for that. “What else should I know about you?”

I look at him questioningly. It’s a stupidly open question and he knows it. We haven’t even laid the  ground rules of what we’re both doing here, drinks in front of us, no history apart from an audition and the possibility of seven years of contracted closeness stretching ahead.

“That depends on what you think you need to know” I counter. “I’m pretty sure my entire life story would take longer than we have before shooting starts and that’s assuming I leave out my hopes and dreams”.

David smiles, “Maybe another time. I suppose what I’m really asking is how you ended up here and what you think happens next. All I really know about you so far is that you can act, that you’ve mostly done theatre, you have a good audition poker face and a sharp tongue. Oh and when you think nobody’s looking you retreat into your own head and pull the most hilarious faces.”

“I do not pull faces!” At least I don’t think I pull faces. But even as I voice my indignance he starts mimicking my bullfrog face and my eyebrow thing and even a “do not fuck with me” face that I recognise as belonging to my mother. “Oh my god that is so fucking embarrassing! You got that from one day?!”

“I like them.” And he sounds like he's telling the truth. “I figured learning your faces early on would be a good idea if we want to survive working together. Warning signs are good to know. There’s one I haven’t figured out though”. He narrows his eyes and tips his head slightly to one side, tightening his mouth just a little. “This is the one you did at me at the audition when I was talking to the other girls. That was the look that made me come over. What does it mean?!”

I hesitate. The truth would be revealing and might upset our balance but I can’t think of a good lie. So I settle for a half-truth.

“That’s my making up my mind face. I was deciding whether or not you could be the Mulder I'd imagined. And judging you a little for going on and on about an anteroom.” I don’t mention that I was also judging him for his flirtatious banter and air of self-assurance.

Now it’s his turn to look bewildered.

“Anteroom? What anteroom? I am so confused right now!”

I smirk a little, it’s fun watching him try to recall, brows drawn close and thrown off balance.

“You kept complaining about the lack of chairs in the corridor to Leggy McGee and the sexy librarian looking girl. Except you kept calling it an anteroom and gesticulating a lot. They seemed pretty impressed.”

“But you weren’t! So you gave me your “judge-y who the fuck says anteroom in the 20th century look? I’m right aren’t I! That’s your 'making your mind up that someone is annoying' face. Admit it”

“You got me!” I giggle at his indignant face, stopping the laughter before it takes control, reigning myself in as I don't think ready for the full cackle. “But for what it’s worth I did also make up my mind that you would be a good Mulder. Annoying or not”

“Well that’s something I suppose.” He looks thoughtful for a second. “You know it really meant a lot when you told me you thought I was good after our scene. I should have been more complimentary to you. You did a damn good job too. Nobody else had as strong a connection to me in the room as you did. I can’t believe how long it took the execs to figure that out”.

I shrug.

“That’s the business I guess. I didn’t think I was going to get it. I was actually beginning to think that maybe I was done with acting.”

Now he really looks surprised, “See that’s the kind of crap I meant by finding out about you. I was trying to figure you out and instead I ended up talking about myself. It’s a bad habit. Why were you done with acting. You’re too good to give up.”

I ignore the compliment to answer him.

“I think I just reached a place where the joy was gone from it. I was so poor and the jobs were so few and far between that when I came out to LA from New York for all the wrong reasons it felt like the last straw. I’m so not Hollywood.”

He nods. “Trust me when I say you don’t want to be. Hollywood is a dick to everyone. Nobody gets what they want.”

“Seems to me you got a pretty good deal. Mr First Choice!” I try to keep the bitterness out of my my voice at how easily it all seems to have happened for him. He shift uncomfortably, and seems to be searching for the right words.

“I can't deny I got a good deal and I know I should be grateful. It just... wasn't what I wanted. TV is… well let's just say I've been busting my ass to get going in films and it wasn't happening. And then this happened and bills needed paying and now here we are.”

“Lifestyles of the would-be rich and famous eh?”. I grin wryly, sipping my drink and noticing it’s almost gone.

“Here’s to rich!” He clinks his glass against mine and swigs the end of his whiskey, signalling to the bar for another and answering my unasked query as to what was happening next. Leaning in conspiratorially he continues. “I’m really not sure about famous though Gillian. I just worked with Brad Pitt and seeing his life… I’m just not sure I could handle that level of scrutiny on me.”

“Not even the screaming women?” I query, only half joking. David smirks but shakes his head.

“Not even then. I mean I’m all for making a woman scream but not by just walking in a room! I like to work at it a little you know?!”.

He bites his lip then winks theatrically and I laugh at the innuendo, or try to, as I splutter and choke on the last mouthful of my drink. Once the initial danger of spitting wine on him passes I can’t help myself and I start to laugh for real. David’s face changes from smug to surprised to disbelieving  as he tries to take in the ridiculous that is my belly laugh, finally giving in and joining me in my helpless glee. It's not like the joke was even that funny but once I’ve started it’s hard to stop and every time I almost reign it in David catches my eye and we’re off again. By the time we get things under control the new drinks have arrived, our couch distance has halved and all formality and tension have drained from the meeting.

“So, Agent Scully-to-be, are you nervous for shooting to start” and I sigh inwardly at the change of tone. If I tell him the truth then maybe he’ll think less of me but I like this honesty thing we have going and if I don’t talk to someone soon I'm worried I might explode from the nerves.

“Yes... I’m fucking terrified actually. I hate first days at the best of times but at least on stage I know the ropes by now. I’ve never shot a whole episode for TV, just random scenes. What if I miss all my marks and forget where the lights or cameras are? What if I spend so much energy on finding those things I forget how to act?”

And there it is, my biggest insecurity dropped in the lap of a new acquaintance who will shortly be my co-star in the biggest break of my career. I sit back and wonder if I’ve made a huge error of judgement, investing too much in new camaraderie under the influence of not enough sleep and wine on an empty stomach.

David considers for a second before leaning toward me and nudging my shoulder with his.

“Not gonna happen Gillian. You’re too much of a pro for that. I bet you already have every line down, you can act the pants off this role and everything else...well I can always steer you from mark to mark until you get the hang of it.” His frank assessment makes things sound so simple and the electricity that runs into my body where our arms touch adds a layer of excitement to counteract the anxiety. My face betrays my reaction, a flush at the flattery or maybe a blush of anticipation colouring my cheeks and a low whistle draws my attention back to my companion’s smiling face. “Blushing like that and with all those cute little freckles you could pass for a natural redhead you know”.

I tug at a strand of hair, scrutinising the still alien colour, “You don’t think it makes me look ill then?” I’ve been worrying about that ever since I saw the final colour.

“No it’s striking. And it makes your eyes look crazy blue” and he catches my gaze as if to check the validity of his statement. His eyes are hazy grey in the dim light, flecks of brown and green warming his stare and drawing me in. It’s hard to explain what happens in that moment. It's not the appraisal of someone you’re considering taking home or the glare of unwelcome attention. It's more like the rest of the world has slipped out of the back door and left us alone together to learn every splash of colour in each others’ eyes. It's quietly intimate, there's no hurry and no rules. It doesn’t occur to me to look away. I don’t even blink.

The moment dissolves slowly, leaving something new between us that somehow feels like it's belonged there all along. As I try to process how an hour has carried us without warning from acquaintances to colleagues to confidantes I am interrupted by a pronouncement.

“Periwinkle”. David sounds uncertain. “Or are they more sky? Maybe it’s the light. I suppose I’ll have a couple of weeks at least to work it out?”

“Huh?” I'm much too caught up in my own thoughts to figure out why my companion is listing colours.

“Your eyes”, he explains, “I’m trying to work out exactly what shade of blue they are. Like if I was going to write a sentence describing them, the specific word would I use. I think periwinkle but I’ll check back in natural light!”

I grin at his thought process, glad that I’m not the only one dissecting the colours in our locked gaze and wondering what else he might write about me.

“And there I was thinking yours would be the changeable ones” I offer. “Hazel tends to do that. I usually just call mine blue!”

“But my dog is called Blue! I need a better identifier…” and we’re off again on a series of tangents and reminiscences, sharing tidbits of our lives and pasts and beginning to flesh out the ideas we have of one another. He’s quick and a confusing mixture of arrogant and self-deprecating that is very charming and totally disarming. I notice him start at my bad language and play it up just to enjoy the reactions. We banter and laugh and I feel like perhaps all of this was the reason that Vancouver was meant to be.

Somewhere alongside the third drink our arms come to rest together but with a glance we decide that tonight is for exploration and friendship. There will be plenty of time for us to decide if this strange chemistry will carry us upstairs to a shared bed. For now we are content to dance around the issue, caught up in the novelty of someone new who feels so much like someone we’ve always been waiting to know. When the line between tipsy and messy starts to blur we reluctantly call time on our meeting, meandering out through the now deserted bar and into the marble clad lobby.

The reception is completely abandoned, even the check-in desk  is without it’s uniformed watcher and as we approach the door I am suddenly very aware that we’re alone, his arm slung casually across my shoulders in a way that started off as supportive but also feels possessive. We reach the doors and pause, tinted glass separating us from the world, my waiting cab and the end of our evening. Before I can think of anything to say he’s pulled me around into a hug, confirming my suspicions both that I’d fit neatly under his chin and that it would feel good to be this close to him.

We hold on longer than is normal, my arms resting just above the waist of his jeans, his around my shoulders, totally chaste but somehow still intimate. We stand long enough that our breath is matching and I wonder for a second if I want him to kiss me after all, tension mounting with every heartbeat until a noise behind us announces the concierge’s return and we separate.

David doesn’t say goodbye, he just steps back and holds the door open for me, a new smile playing around his lips, halfway between a grin and a smirk and the mirror of what I can feel on my own face. I consider holding his gaze and walking backwards to the car, greedy for the last few seconds of whatever this evening has been but force myself to turn and cross the pavement. By the time I’m settled in and can look back the door has swung shut and he is gone. I imagine him heading upstairs and stripping off the softly clinging fabric of his t-shirt, revealing the firm chest I had so recently laid my head against, jolting embarrassedly back to reality as the cab driver asks me a third time for my destination. I force my mind back to the present to concentrate on navigating this still unfamiliar town, there’ll be time for fantasy when I’m safely back in my room.


	4. Crossed Beams: Chapter 4 - Pilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments in time during shooting of The X-FIles pilot episode. Gillian struggles to adjust to television and the on-set dynamics with a little help from her co-star.

_March 6th 1993_

“We’re going to need a bigger box”

It’s just before lunch and I’m glaring at David Duchovny’s chin as he grins to himself, pleased at his joke. The box he is referring to is under my feet, an industry standard apple box which in combination with the three inch heels I’ve been on since 6am is supposed to address our 10 inch height difference. But it still isn’t enough and all of my hard learned dialogue has so far been misfired at his collarbone.

He’s right and I know he’s right, the awkward angle is cutting into the chemistry that got us here and this first day’s rushes will be flown back to LA and dissected by people who matter. The important thing should be getting the scene done and done right but I’m still desperate not to be the cause of the first problem of the shoot. It’s a scene that should be easy to do, the same scene we auditioned, that I have read so many times I know the lines and everything implied between them by heart. There shouldn’t be an issue but there is one and it’s mine. It doesn’t matter how damn nice my co-star is about it, the fact remains that me being such a fucking tiny human has caused a delay and it’s making me antsy.

I step off the box and try to release some of the rising tension. I _am_ going to get this right so as the prop guy whips the apple box away to add an inch to it I retreat back to my chair and my script, determined to recapture the certainty I’d felt at the table read. I couldn’t believe it was only yesterday we’d sat around, working at the nuances of tone that would feed our characterization, David and I catching each other's eyes across the table, conspiratorial in the gentle hangover of our shared evening. The director had dropped in and approved, the positivity had been overwhelming and I wouldn’t accept that a few short hours had drained away the progress, that I was back to being that scared girl who had stood in front of the studio executives and not won them over.

Deliberately heavy footfalls draw my attention from the script I'm blindly staring at to David’s approaching form; gait exaggerated, one hand behind his back as he theatrically strides towards me, an endearing smile on his annoyingly perfect face.

“What the fuck are you doing”, I’m amused against my better judgement and trying not to show it.

“I’m making sure I don’t make you jump with my ninja ballerina walk. You looked like you might want to kill something and so I brought you this muffin to kill instead of me.” He holds out a bedraggled looking cake that has clearly been out on a table all morning and puts it on the arm of my chair.

“Thanks”, I reply, it’s a nice gesture after all, “I’m just really not hungry”.

He nods. “I didn’t bring it for you to eat. I thought you might enjoy smashing it. I saw it sat there and just thought, you know cake smashing could be an excellent stress reliever for Gillian.”

I regard him with what he will come to recognise as my ‘what the absolute fuck look’ and to his credit he maintains a straight face though I can see laughter fighting to break out from behind his eyes.

“Duchovny.” I keep my voice level, “That is without a doubt the biggest pile of shit anyone has ever spoken in my presence”, and as his chuckle blends with protestations that he was telling the truth and trying to help I can’t help but feel my spirits begin to lift. It’s silly and meaningless and exactly what I needed to get out of my own head before I spiralled further down my first day rabbit-hole of nerves.

The runner calls that we’re ready to start again and as David holds out a hand to drag me out of my chair I hold up a finger, indicating that I need a second before forming a fist and bringing it down hard on the unsuspecting muffin. It actually did feel pretty good. Shaking crumbs away I grab the proffered hand and lever myself upright, using the momentum to pass close to my grinning co-star and murmur in his ear.

‘You know there really isn’t anything better than pounding muffin to turn a day around”. Releasing him I swan back to the set, a choking laugh behind letting me know that my parting shot had exactly the desired effect. For a few moments at least I am back in the saddle.

* * *

The next few days are a whirlwind of lines and stress, euphoria and desperation. I’d hoped that after the wobble of ‘Day One’ I would find a groove and take control like I always had on stage but it hadn’t been the smooth improvement I’d expected. I still felt off balance. When things went right I could see a series pick-up, months in the company of an exciting cast and crew as I got the chance to flesh out my part and showcase my talent. When things went wrong all I could see was the boxes of my belongings I’d stuffed into a cheap storage room back in LA, the only home I had waiting for me. I hated the inconsistency of my mood and the effect it had on my ability to perform; I felt like all that masked my uncertainty was a dogged determination to be seen as professional. I couldn’t remember the last time I had worked so hard for success and been so convinced of my impending failure.

This duality seeps into every aspect of my day. I laugh with the crew over a silly gaffe once we know we have the scene in the bag but swear under my breath along with the cameraman when I miss my mark and we have to reset a sequence. I clap and smile, giddy when we get good feedback on rushes, nod seriously at my corrections while internally screaming that this is it, this is the time they’ll fire me for being so useless. David seems to sense my struggle and as promised steers me from mark to mark in our shared scenes, explaining what's happening with lighting and tech between takes, anything he can think of to make me comfortable. But even he is not immune from my uncertainty.

On set there are moments I could kiss him out of gratitude. He promised to help and is good to his word. I've already lost count of the times his hand on my back has prevented a misstep or his steadying gaze has calmed me before before a long exchange. And it goes beyond that. David has an easy relationship with the crew, network and producers and he carries me along as I try learn how to navigate the complicated landscape of set politics.

But when his uniting presence is gone I start to feel the sting of being the less beloved party, to envy him the notes of congratulation from the network, the certainty with which he walks around set. He already belongs here and I don’t. The uneven standing colours our relationship and makes me question the closeness we have begun to cultivate, it makes me wonder if confiding in David was the right choice. Is it truly friendship or was he doing the network’s bidding and keeping tabs on the unknown? Was I wrong to show him my weakness? Did he support me out of pity or duty? Or maybe for more selfish reasons. While I naively craved someone to talk to about all my worries and wonderings was he just looking for the best prospect while the long hours kept sweet nights with easier women out of his reach?

In the ordered optimism of my morning routine I can reason away these doubts, my logical mind reassigning to him the sweet gestures and genuine conversations of a friendship beyond our on-camera chemistry and daily I decide that if I’m invited out for a post-work drink I will go. I decide that if David flirts with me over that drink I will let myself respond in kind. And then the day begins and everything else interferes, my logic becomes compromised and I find myself back in my room alone every night, an invite wasted, a notebook full of tortured corrections and medical definitions my only companion.

I barely recognise myself. Something is going to have to give and I just hope it isn’t me.

* * *

“Cut”.

That’s fifteen takes on one speech and it’s a new low for me; a low I can’t even fully comprehend as water pours down my face, numbing an icy channel down my cheeks and nose before cascading from my chin and onto the drenched fabric of my raincoat.

It’s the middle of the night, the sky is bright with artificial moonlight and the rain is relentless, the effects department have outdone themselves and I’m pretty sure I’ve just done myself out of a job. They have the time and the right to a recast before a series if The X-Files is picked up and I’m sure that’s what they’re thinking. How hard can it be to find someone who can deliver a sentence about graves and forests and someone called Nemmen or Nemo or whatever without completely losing the plot? The scene is almost reset for take 16 and nobody’s making light of this any more, we’re all too fucking cold for funny and in that moment something inside me cracks.

I think I sob once as I let go of the perfect performance I am incapable of giving. I tell myself that if this is it for me and the X-Files then I’m going to try and enjoy the last few days. Starting now.

I turn to David who somehow looks even wetter and more miserable than I do, his tall frame hunched hopelessly against the deluge and his gaze dark with concern. From the back of my mind I summon the black comedy of this moment, the high hopes and the soggy reality and I paste it to my face as a grin. He looks confused.

“I’d better get the speech right this time or you’re totally fucked” I tell him, “Or at the very least we’ll have to change your name to Moulder, on account of the wet dog smell and how fast that coat is taking on water” I reach over and tap the edge of his hood, disrupting the folds and causing a small river of collected rain to rush off the coat and down under his collar. “Oh bollocks” I apologise, though he’s soaked already and my audacity is rewarded by a slight twinkle in his gaze.

“You do not want to start a water fight with me right now Gillian” he warns. “I saw the tank they’re using backstage and I’m pretty sure I could just toss you in it”.

“That would be a much scarier threat if I wasn’t already so drenched you could irrigate a small desert nation using just my underwear”, I hadn’t planned to open a line of innuendo but David’s quirked eyebrow and grin makes me glad I did. If we can’t act our way out of this hellbeast of a day then maybe we can laugh until it dies on its own. His response is interrupted by a clapboard and a take and by some miracle I muddle through the lines, buoyed on by the echoes of the smile on my co-stars face, by the freedom I feel from my own expectations and as I near the end of the speech the swell of hope from the crew that we might all get to go home before we are washed away.

It’s a wrap and a night and the rain stops as the machines are turned off. The deafening silence it leaves is soon replaced with the hubbub of a team ready to get the hell out, the creaks of castor wheels and the whirr of generators lighting the night and shattering the last illusions of the scene. I stand blinking stupidly in the brightness, adrenaline fading and I can't think of what I need to do next. I need to be dry, but I have been wet for so long now that I can’t work out where to begin. David’s hand on my elbow starts us in the direction of wardrobe and I drift at his side along the duckboards that line the forest floor, away from the crew and towards the trailers where warm clothes and hot drinks wait.

We’re half way back with not a word spoken when the gentle pressure on my arm increases, pulling me off the path and into the shadows of the forest. I take a breath to ask what’s happening only to have it stolen from me as David catches my question on my lips with a brush of his thumb.

He’s in front of me now, a shadow in a shadow, one hand on my face and the other still on my arm. His touch is gentler now, asking if I want to be here with him in the darkness where all I can see is his silhouette closing the space between us and the two tiny sparks of light that have caught in his eyes. This isn't any of the scenarios I have imagined for our next moment alone together but it swells and erases my pretty daydreams with the broad imprecise strokes of an as yet undefined reality.

My body responds involuntarily to his closeness, rising up on to tiptoe and reaching towards him even as his hand drops to my waist and pulls me in close to him, to the same space I’d occupied in the hotel lobby. But this time there is no concierge, no waiting cab and no hesitation. The moment before I taste him is the last when my heart is truly my own.

And then I’m not cold any more. Warmth rushes from his lips on mine to every place where he’s touching me. I’m hardly on my feet, hands on his shoulders, in his hair, anywhere I can reach and find some way to pull him closer to me. He lifts me, pushing back against the tree to hold me in place and allow his hand back up to explore my jawline and tangle in my hair. He smells of rain and tastes like coffee, his tongue tracing my lips, charting the lines of my mouth and then pausing it’s exploration to greet me with kisses that feel like home and I stop trying to remember why I waited so long to let this happen.

The moment breaks when a huge drop of water runs cold from my hairline down my spine and my involuntary shudder shakes us back into reality. For a moment we have forgotten where we are, drenched and barely hidden in our shared workplace and as we come down from the kiss our damp clothes settle heavily back on our shoulders along with the knowledge that we are too close to production for any sort of privacy.

We don't speak as we step back into the light of the walkway, a shared smile the only souvenir of our ground-shifting detour on the journey back to the trailers. David's hands swing gently at his sides and high on the recklessness of the last hour I reach out and clasp it, just for a moment. The thrill of his fingers interlocking with mine reverberates through me, amplifying the aftershocks of the kiss and I wish for a moment that we were different people in a different place. That we could run hand in hand to the closest half-private place and finish what we’ve started, leave all the stress of the last few days and all the expectations upon us on the floor with our soaked clothes. We could strip the world away until all that’s left is him and me and whatever the wordless thing between us is that has existed since we first locked eyes.

But we are where we are and as we approach the trailers a small army rushes out, ushering us in separate directions, blankets and all the other things I had craved during filming forced between me and the only thing I now really want. I change in a daze, hurrying into my own clothes and wishing my appearance could match the way I feel but not willing to waste time primping when I could be making sense of things with David. I emerge into the Vancouver darkness with my heart on my sleeve and a mouthful of questions to see David being steered away by Chris, another conversation I am not a part of and though he looks back to me, mouthing apologies and asking me to wait I feel the lightness leave me and doubt begin to creep back in.

Back at my hotel I wash the rain and the kisses from my skin, pull my defences back into place and pace the room, hoping the phone will ring but unsure what I’ll say if it does.

The phone doesn’t ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everybody who has reblogged and fed back this project of mine. I am having the best time writing it and hope that I can continue to engage you all. As always, feedback her or on tumblr will always be read and appreciated. Happy Easter to you all!


	5. Crossed Beams: Chapter 5 - Platonic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss has changed everything... or has it?

**_Vancouver - 11th March 1993._ **

_It has been 46 hours since the kiss._

_I have never been the girl who counts days and hours after life events, my memory is crap and even if it wasn't, there’s something morbid about measuring days based on dead moments that I can’t get over. But something about that kiss has burned its way into my internal calendar, refusing to be pushed backwards in my mind, ticking every hour that I wait to find out what happens next._

_And I’m done waiting, I’d rather blow to oblivion than count hours forever._

_46 fucking hours._

* * *

**_38 hours earlier_ **

I wake up the morning after the kiss more than slightly pissed off that David didn’t call or come over. He knows exactly where to find me and hasn't, leaving me alone with nothing but those tired old romance novel questions about what the intimacy  _he_ initiated means. The pool of possible excuses is pretty fucking shallow; it’s only a cold shower, the fact that our schedule is so insane and the situation so potentially complicated that’s keeping me from being genuinely furious at being left hanging.

My mood doesn’t improve when I remember that I’m scheduled to shoot a bunch of solo scenes today, including my first with Scully’s boyfriend, Ethan. Apparently her having an outside love interest will signal that she and Mulder are strictly platonic, without ‘another party’ how would poor Scully possibly avoid falling instantly into flirtation with the brooding Mulder? Whatever the reason or my thoughts on it, it means that I don’t have a scene scheduled with David that day and there’s a chance that we won’t cross paths at all. I ignore the sinking feeling that accompanies this realisation. I just need to have some breakfast.

But breakfast and lunch pass and I'm still off-balance as I shoot filler shots and try to manufacture a ‘more believable’ chemistry with my on-screen boyfriend. He's cute and under normal circumstances I'd have taken notice but I hardly recognise his hello and when I look into his eyes all I see is who he isn't. The director keeps asking for more and I try, try to see and desire the man in front of me, just for a scene but there's the connection is missing. While I change into pajamas and try to muster some enthusiasm for crawling into bed with this stranger, all I can think about is that it’s probably already too late for a truly platonic Mulder and Scully. That it has been since the first time David and I took whatever it is that happens when we lock eyes and put it in front of a camera.

Still I put my best foot forward and pull on a smile for my scene-mate who is already settled in ‘our’ bed, diagonal light cast in stripes across him from the blind at the window. I climb in, fighting the urge to tense up as we are directed to forego our personal space and cuddle up. The lights drop and the cameras roll. As I have half a phone conversation with a producer feeding me David’s lines I can’t help but think how irrelevant the man behind me is in the scope of this plot. Even if this scene makes the final cut and the show makes a series I can’t imagine that poor Ethan or Evan or whatever his name is will be along for much of the ride. Maybe neither of us will.

The take ends and as the lighting is tweaked and the sheets rearranged I sit up to better hear the director’s notes. And that’s when I see David standing and watching, half hidden by the dim light and the rig but unmistakably there. It's as if somebody has run an electric current through the bedsheets.

I raise a hand in half a wave but he doesn't respond or acknowledge me, doesn’t move to come over and say hi, just stands there unmoving, unreadable. Echoes of our last interaction run through me, the heat of attraction rekindling my earlier irritation and transforming it into something hotter and more reckless. I need some sort of reaction and while the next take is being set up I turn to my bed-mate and lean in closer than before, reflecting my frustration and want on to the closest available object. I tell him how much fun I’m having, apologising for my first impression, hand on his arm and mischief in my tone. He seems surprised but not unwilling to go with my sudden personality transformation, responding with some lame joke about not normally jumping into bed on a first meeting. I laugh big, throw my head back, squeezing his arm and letting my bare leg rest against his. It’s shameless on my part, I can’t even remember the actor’s name, but in that moment I don’t care. I'm in control and the star of our little show. We finish the scene in fewer takes than we might have had I not started throwing myself at Ethan, my flirtation encouraging an improved rapport between us that carries us to the last cut of the day. I refuse to look back to David’s watching spot until we’re finished and am not sure if I’m pleased or disappointed that he has gone.

I discard my pretend interest in my show-boyfriend along with my costume and sneak out the side way to avoid any potentially awkward conversations with the actor involved. I’m not proud of my behaviour but I am too proud to apologise or explain my motivations. I’m not sure I even know what they were, today has made a fucked up mess of my moment of clarity in the rain. I pour and finish a glass of wine alone in my room and tell myself that I did what was needed to force a connection where there wasn’t one. It was for the show and my career, not to prove a point and definitely not for David.

I sleep badly that night.

* * *

  _As I stride into the lobby  and turn towards the elevator I realise that I don’t know what room I am looking for. I don’t even know what floor. I veer towards the concierge, pulling the front of my coat more tightly together and wondering how to ask. It’s the same one who almost caught us all those nights ago and before I can even speak he tells me Room 601, his face neutral but his eyes kind, seeming to understand that I must reach my destination before my adrenaline and momentum run out._

  _Forced to stop in the elevator I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyes are bright and slightly wild. I feel half wild; buoyed on by frustration, annoyance and need I have thought less about coming here than I have about many less important choices._

  _But when the doors open on the sixth floor I press onwards. Rational thoughts will find no home in my head tonight._

* * *

**_Seven hours earlier_ **

I suspect that even without communication, I would have handled yesterday better if I hadn't had the script of this afternoon’s upcoming scene with David burned indelibly into my mind. If I didn’t know exactly the stage directions I would be blocking right now. If there were a bigger dress-bag waiting for me in wardrobe.

But there isn't and in less than an hour I will be standing in a seedy motel in my underwear, asking David Duchovny to check me out in front of three cameras and an enormous crew. I first read the scene with detachment. I’d been expecting an underwear scenario at some point, even a role as unusual as Dana Scully wasn’t likely to be totally free from the Hollywood’s standards for women but at that point I hadn't known I would be tangled up in some sort of off-screen flirtation with my co-star. I hadn’t known then that when I dropped that robe I’d know how his mouth would feel against my skin. I hadn’t known that when the directions say to hold on to him for comfort I’d be returning to a place that already feels like it belongs to me. I hadn’t known that when I knocked on that door and met his gaze that I’d be looking for clues that he was just as confused by what was happening as I was. And I definitely wouldn’t have guessed how meeting his gaze and seeing for the first time some sort of barrier between us would affect me. That suddenly I would feel more naked and alone in this scene than I had imagined was possible.

It’s as if I’m standing in front of a shadow of the man who kissed me in the woods. Mulder is there and functioning but David has checked out, his eyes a stormy green grey, the sparkle extinguished. I stutter my lines out, the nerves for once working in my favour as I lower the robe, revealing myself in the soft candlelight. I hear him bend down and try not to shudder as his breath and the heat of the candle brush the sensitive curve of my back. Though something has tainted the simplicity of our chemistry  I can’t escape the effect that he has on me and I feel goosebumps spreading across my skin, a soft flush I hope is invisible in this dim lighting. He barely touches the marks that make-up spent so long applying and yet I still,  the only sounds left are blood roaring under my skin and his breath catching in his throat.

The script isn't specific about how the platonic, post-traumatic hug should be initiated and now as the moment arrives and I turn I see a flash of doubt cross David’s face. It’s not an expression that belongs to him and without thinking I step into him, pressing my cheek to his heart and clinging on in an attempt to undo whatever has changed between the kiss and this. His arms are gentle on my back but as the take ends he turns away from me to speak to the camera man, another moment lost. I awkwardly retie my robe and pace, wondering how in hell two grown adults can be so undone by something as commonplace as a kiss.

The next four takes are fairly similar as I battle against my body’s response to David’s closeness, the disappointment at his detachment and the urge to make him talk to me, no matter how inappropriate the setting. The importance of this scene to the show is the only thing that’s stopping me from recalling the frustrated anger of the last few days. I think I see progress on the sixth and final attempt, a softening and a question in his eyes in the moment between him touching me and the hug. But then we spend three hours shooting a dialogue-heavy bedside conversation in the dark, touch-ups and directions destroying every opportunity to talk alone. I hang on for the moment we’re wrapped and I’m covered and I turn to look for him, to try and laugh or talk away whatever has happened but I find he has already gone. I still have a solo scene to do, a self examination in a mirror which in my current state reveals very little about myself that I want to see. By the time I'm done, David has left for the day.

Sweeping into my trailer and letting the door slam I throw the ugly, shiny robe to the floor and stride though to the bedroom throwing myself on to the bed in a fit of temper. How is this so complicated already? It was only a kiss for fucks sake and while I was hoping it could be more, a stress reliever for the last week of filming, it seems that the price paid is the only friend I’ve made in Vancouver. I tear apart all the stupidly tiny things that have happened in the last two days for some rationale and come up empty. Was it the lost moment after the kiss that broke things or the phone that never rang? Or the day of no contact, him watching my meaningless flirtation with a nameless actor? How is it possible that we’ve already lost our manual on how to communicate?

By the time I’m dressed and ready to go home I’m equal parts angry that things have become so strange and sad that maybe I’ve compromised that honest camaraderie that I’d so enjoyed building. I’ve also taken a couple of swigs from the bottle of vodka that’s sat in my trailer unopened from day one. As I leave catch my foot on the discarded robe and the beginnings of an idea blossom. Tossing the offending garment in my bag I head back to the hotel where two more vodkas and another unsuccessful cold shower fail to deliver me from my agitated state. The alcohol is eroding the sensible voice in my head telling me to wait and have a rational conversation with David tomorrow. I change into clean underwear and unpack my bag rolling the idea around until it becomes a plan. The kind of plan that sober Gillian would absolutely never condone which is why it’s tipsy Gillian who five minutes later walks back out of the hotel room, redressed and headed for the W Hotel.

* * *

_I don’t stop for a breath before I knock on the door of Room 601. I don’t want to think. My heart-rate is high, adrenaline and anticipation charging into alcohol and resulting in a sort of euphoric detachment from this potentially catastrophic decision. I hear footsteps and a slight flicker at the eye-hole before the door inches open and reveals David, half dressed and dishevelled, his expression unreadable._

_As soon as there’s a gap I push past him, noting the unruffled bed and the half drunk whiskey on the side. I hear the door click shut and turn my attention to the reason I’m here._

_“Gillian”, he begins, even toned and rational. But I am not here to be rational and so I cut him off, dropping my coat on the floor and closing the gap between us._

 " _David”, I tell him, hands dropping slowly to undo the belt of the same red robe I wore this afternoon. “I want you to look at something”._

  _And then I drop the robe._


	6. Crossed Beams: Chapter 6 - Tangled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens at the W after the robe hits the floor.

The sensation of the robe sliding down my legs sets my skin on fire as I stand exposed in the middle of David’s hotel room. The black cotton and lace I have wrapped myself in cling to my curves, darkly separating the pale expanses of my skin and covering only my most intimate spaces.

It’s like I’ve shot him. My brazen display has literally stopped him midstep as his gaze trails down my body, his breath shortening before he remembers himself and drags his eyes back up to lock with mine. They are dark and raw and I know that however it this ends it will not be sweet and soft.

“What the fuck are you doing Gillian?” His words are sharp but not angry, confusion and arousal and the frustration of denial swirl in the space between us.

“That’s usually my line David”, I snap back at him, “What do you think I’m doing? Last time I checked there were no weird alien bites on my back but you can double check if that would make this easier for you?” And I step closer to him, turning and arching my back towards him, satisfied to hear the hiss of an inhale as my movement has the desired effect.

I turn back to face him and cock my head, hair swinging to one side and drawing a smooth line just waiting to be traced from earlobe to collarbone. I watch him struggling to keep his eyes on my face. I want him to lose the battle, I’ve opened strong and it’s up to him to make the next move. His gaze bores into mine and a muscle in his jaw twitches, the silence stretched so tightly between us that it becomes solid and then shatters as he turns away and strides across the room putting the bed between us and clenching his hands into fists.

“For god’s sake Gillian! How am I meant to think straight when you’re dressed like that.”

“You’re not”. I stand my ground though his reaction is starting to make me think I’ve miscalculated. “I didn’t come over here for a thinking party David.”

“So you’re making me your booty call?”

I shrug, dropping my eyes pointedy to the bulge in his sweatpants which tells me that least one of his decision making organs is on my side. “Is that a problem? I can always go” I offer, scanning around as if for my robe.

“Maybe you should. You could try calling Tim up and see if he can come over!” He’s getting more and more agitated and I’m getting more and more confused.

“Who the fuck is Tim?” I’m lost but he’s not done.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about Gillian. You saw me standing there and you didn't care, you just went right back to rolling around with him on that bed like I never even existed. Like the night before never even happened”. And it’s out there, the reason for the wall between us today is something as petty and stupid as I had worried it might be.

“At least he talked to me.” I try to keep the edge in my voice, rage is a stronger aphrodisiac than regret. “You didn’t even wave and I felt so stupid. I’m a grown ass woman and I don’t need every flirtation to turn into true love but I do expect friends who kiss me to keep talking to me afterwards. You’ve hardly looked at me in two days David, so I’m entitled to do as I please with whatshisname!” I suddenly feel horribly exposed in just my underwear, all my thoughts laid out for him to see. I start looking in earnest for my robe, wishing I had been less dramatic throwing it off.

A flash of red next to me is accompanied by David’s scent as he moves back around the bed to hand me the mislaid garment. The last shreds of my courage start to crumble as I take it wordlessly, marching orders burned into the slippery fabric.

“I didn’t know what to say”. His voice stops me as I turn to leave. “At first I didn't think I needed to say anything. I was waiting outside your trailer that night, I was going to go with the flow, forget normal and just see what happened. But then Chris had some concerns that took hours to iron out and I was on the other side of the set for half of the next day. And then it wasn’t so simple any more.. I don’t make friends that easily and you had become one Gillian, I didn’t want to lose that. But I didn’t want to not kiss you again either. So I waited and then when I finally tracked you down it was like whatever we had was a pale imitation of what I was seeing. You looked like you were having fun with Tim. You never looked at me like that. And then today, that scene was utter torture. Touching you without being able to taste you, having to let you go after that hug and all the time imagining somebody else wrapping themselves in your perfume. I couldn't look at you because I thought I was going to explode”.

“So did I”. My voice is shaky and I focus all of my energy on holding the robe to my chest as I try to process his words. I don’t look at him, I can feel his closeness but I need to rebalance myself before I let myself fall back into the intensity of a shared look. “I didn’t look at that actor like I look at you because he means nothing to me. And I look at you in a thousand different ways because you’re my friend and you confuse me and because I have no idea what I want from you any more than you know what you want from me. This whole thing is crazy; this show, the schedule, the uncertainty of the future and I know that. All I want from you is honesty, friendship and whatever moments come naturally. I want what we had in the bar that first night and when you brought me the muffin and maybe what we didn’t get to finish in the forest. That’s all.” I trail off into silence, eyes still fixed on my knuckles where they grip the fabric of my robe.

“Only maybe?” His voice is closer than I expected, and I lose my battle not to look at him, falling back into the murky complexity of his gaze.

”Well your behaviour this evening has made me reconsider slightly. Apparently you have the emotional maturity of a twelve year old and I’ve got enough to handle with my own stupid insecurities.” I’m trying to push bitter sarcasm into my voice, to bolster it against the breathy weakness that is him moving closer and closer to me but I don’t think it’s working. He pauses, a foot away, static crackling between us and lights dancing once again in his stare.

“What insecurities would those be? Because so far I don’t see very much lacking unless you count a clean vocabulary”, he lazily runs his eyes down my body, illustrating his point.

“Fuck you Duchovny”, is my final shot, his lopsided grin falling like the last standard of our battle and everything we’ve put between us comes apart.

I clutch at the worn fabric of his t-shirt as he pulls me into him, mouth skating over my lips to the soft space between my earlobe and jaw, stealing my breath and my senses with the rough of his teeth and the soft wet of his tongue. My arms are trapped between us, pushing against my breasts and stimulating my nipples as he digs his fingers into the soft skin of my ass, dragging me closer and pushing his hardness against me. I dig my nails into his chest and nip his collarbone hard, making him start and move away enough that I can run my hands under his shirt, craving the sensation of skin on skin, freeing my hands to explore every detail of his body.

His eyes are liquid, somehow dark and light all at once and as his shirt comes off I push him backwards until his knees hit the bed, folding him down so I can finally claim his mouth as a prize for my reckless victory. This time there is no sweetness in our kiss, there isn’t even any air. It is whiskey and vodka, tongues and teeth in a desperate whirlwind of need. I bite down on his lip and he groans, tugging my thighs apart and over his hips until I settle where he wants me, soft on hard with only fabric in our way.

This perspective gives me access to new parts of him and I lose myself exploring the span of his collarbones, the rough of his stubble and the tiny dip behind his ear where I taste salt and sweetness wrapped in a familiar musk that I will catalogue as uniquely David from that moment forward. My attentions spur on his wandering hands, capture his breath and he hums with desire, the vibrations running through my body to where I am rocking against him, driving us forward towards the point of no return.

He pulls back a moment, catching my face between my hands, offering me a last opportunity to leave though I can see my own hunger reflected in his gaze. I moan at the separation, reaching behind me to unhook my bra. I am done with waiting and every last barrier must go but he grabs at my hands, stopping me, his voice husky as he tells me he wants to do it himself. Then he’s shifting me backwards so I am standing between his thighs and for a second I see him look at me the way people look at the stars on a clear night; a heady cocktail of disbelief, wonder and appreciation. He slides his fingers under my bra-straps and smooths them down my shoulders, clasps release and gravity carries the unwanted garment to the floor as fireworks race over my skin and explode between my legs. My panties follow and the heat between us leaves no room for self-consciousness, only the silent worship of his gaze and my hands claiming his pants to balance the equation of our nakedness.

Words fall away with those last defences and we just look for a moment. His eyes tangle in the trimmed hair between my legs and I take him in in his full glory, his cock is hard and beginning to glisten with pre-cum and I imagine the sensation of stretching to accommodate his size, my tiny frame unlocking to accept him. And then I don’t have to imagine any more, we crash together and I can feel him pressed hard against me, steel and silk on my belly and velvet in my mouth.

He takes control, half carrying me down on to the mattress and sliding down in a blissful swathe to lap at my hard nipples. His tongue paints them from pink to glistening and then he bites down to send the trapped light singing through my body to where his fingers are teasing the tops of my thighs. I clutch at his hair, forcing him close to me, bringing my heels to his ass and trying to close the gap between his hand and my need. WIth devastating slowness he kisses a wet path across my navel and down between my legs, hot breath chased by a slow swipe of his tongue up my inner lips stopping just short of where I want him. I can’t help the noise that I make, somewhere between a frustrated shriek and a miaow and I feel him half laugh and then finally get to the fucking point.

His fingers are firm and they open me to his mouth, sure strokes of liquid pleasure on my labia and around my clit, promises of pleasure still to come that have me soaking his fingers and grinding down, begging for more. When he finally flutters a kiss on my centre,  pushing two fingers into my pussy and latching his mouth to me in a way that makes lights shoot across the backs of my closed eyelids I arch wantonly, struggling to believe how perfectly he already plays my body.

As the waves of my orgasm crest the horizon and rush towards me I dig my nails hard into his shoulders, urging David on but instead he stops, grinning lazily as he crawls back up me and kisses my gasping mouth, sweet with my juice. I’m momentarily mad about the missed release but then the head of his cock brushes my leg on it’s way to the place his mouth has just vacated and I quiver with anticipation as he rolls me on top. Our kisses are sloppy, missing our mouths as we try to taste every millimetre of each other’s skin and I hear him rustle about in the night-stand, a breath separates us and he tries to open a foil packet with his teeth, fumbling the first attempt.

I snatch it and take over, if I don’t get to taste him now then I at least want to feel him as I roll the condom down his length, wishing that I knew him well enough to take him in no more that the taut skin that tightens as I run my nails gently up his shaft. I slow as I approach the head, delicately swirling the collected bead of liquid with a fingertip and without quite touching him. He hisses and thrusts himself into my hands, eyes screwed shut and murmuring

“Gillian please.”

My name on his lips breaks my resolve to tease, I’m ready to feel and with my task completed I straddle him, one hand at the root of him, gliding him through my wetness, teasing myself for a second before I position him at the entrance of my pussy. As I begin to sink down he grabs at my spare hand, entwining our fingers and capturing my gaze. I sink into the green velvet of his bedroom eyes and lose myself around him. Every inch I settle is a stretch, a new sensation and he watches me intently, allowing me utter control of both of our bodies. When I finally take him to the hilt I can feel him against my cervix, fuller than I’ve ever been in my life. I adjust and give my hips an experimental roll causing my muscles to ripple around him before fixing him with a half smile and starting to move. He grunts and then the light in his eyes goes off as the animal takes over. I ride and he drives, slowly at first but then harder and faster as the room fills with the smell of sex and the wind outside gets lost in our frenzied breathing and the meaningless noises with which I meet every peak. My free hand is on his balls and my clit, adding to the mess of sensations that are driving us closer to release.

I want more, I want him harder and deeper and he reads my mind, flipping me beneath him and pulling my legs up and over my shoulders, tempo rising to a frenzied ,feverish pitch as I feel him start to swell inside me. I’m close but not close enough I think but then his thumb finds my clit and starts rubbing out firm circles across my burning nerve endings, shorting out the power to my brain and sending me flying towards my orgasm. As the first shocks hit I clamp down hard on his cock and I cry out his name, gratified when he responds with a spurt of erratic thrusts, emptying himself into me, letting my legs fall and collapsing to my chest, whispering expletives and my name into the damp flesh of my breast.

We lie like that until the sweat has cooled, the sexual tension dissolved into something new and nameless and neither of us willing to break the spell. The late hour and the long day are suddenly heavy upon us and when our breath is our own again David moves up beside me, gathering me into his chest and pulling the comforter over us and turning out the light. Sleep is not far away in the safe space under his chin and the last thing I remember is him gently stroking my hair as his presence fills all of my senses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are seriously awesome. So many really supportive people with nice (and constructive) things to say and I honestly wouldn't have made it this far without all the feedback and inspirations you all give me.Big love -Rx


	7. Crossed Beams: Chapter 7 - Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after is a rollercoaster in more ways than one as dynamics change and patterns start to emerge.

A rolling grumble and high pitched hiss cut through my sleep and I stir, face buried in unfamiliar-smelling sheets. I startle and flip myself over in a moment of panic before soft lamplight and my nakedness bring back my memories of this room and what has happened in it. Across the floor a boxer-clad David turns and greets me with a sleep-smeared smile and a question in his eyes as I pull the sheet up to cover myself, unsure of where we go now.

“Did you forget where you were? Or do you always wake up like you’ve been stung!” He crosses back to me and holds out a mug, “I thought you’d need coffee but I’m sorry the kettle woke you. I had a better plan for that”. There’s a shy sort of regret in his voice as he sits down a foot too far from me that makes me wish I had kept on sleeping, let him finish his thought and woken to his mouth somewhere on my body. As he looks away and stares into his mug I wonder if he’s mourning the same lost moment and the certainty it could have given us about where we stand with each other. Putting my coffee down I shuffle to my knees and lean across to him, running my nose across his cheek to make him look at me and then capturing his lips with mine, a sweet echo of last night’s heat. He hums contentedly against my mouth, reaching up to smooth my hair back and reminding me how perfectly my cheek fits his hand. Pulling back I ask him,

“Is that what you had in mind” and am rewarded with a lopsided smile and hooded eyes that tell me David’s plan was a little racier than mine. My breath hitches at the implication and he smirks as he reaches past me, grazing the edges of my personal space to put his cup next to mine. Planting one hand on either side of my crossed legs and pulling his weight forward he hovers over me and drops his eyes to where my elbows are holding the sheet tight to my body. He blinks, lashes caressing his cheekbones and I release my arms, grabbing his face to pull him down for a mouthful of hard kisses that ignite my blood faster than caffeine ever could. His hand is at my breast, rolling my exposed nipple to exquisite hardness as I start to push his boxers over his hips, his cock already rising to greet the day. I’m thinking that perhaps I’ll taste him for breakfast when he rolls away, gasping and pulling his underwear back into position.

“We can’t Gillian, we have to get to work!” And even as my body cries out for more my mind snaps back to reality. Shit! I have a 5am call and my alarm is five city blocks away - I’m late! I’m upright before my next conscious thought, scrabbling for my discarded bra and panties and wondering how the hell I’m going to explain arriving on set in nothing but a stolen robe!

“What time is it” I gasp, “Fuck I can’t believe I didn’t think about a wakeup call! I’m gonna be so fucking late - I have an hour of makeup and hair and - bollocksing-shitting-arseballs! I’m so fucking fired!” I’m a frenzy of panic, my panties are on inside out and I can’t find the sash to keep the robe closed. Looking to my partner in crime for help I’m shocked to find him grinning and I snap. “I’m glad my imminent joblessness is fucking funny to you David!”

He tries to wipe the smile off his face and fails. “Gillian relax.” I start to interrupt but he keeps going. “I’m laughing at the fact that your swearing gets a bit of a British edge when you’re freaking out. And because you’re not gonna be late. It’s only 4am. I set up a call after you fell asleep. I also took your key out of your coat and asked the concierge to send someone to get you some clothes. They’ll be in the car that is due to take us to set in half an hour. So you can breathe, drink your coffee and have a shower, it’s gonna be okay.”

I stop still at his words though the whirl of my thoughts continues to try and throw me of balance while I process the situation. I’m standing tousled and half-assembled in the wreckage of my handsome co-star’s suite, my body marked by his mouth, ringing from his kisses. I’m completely vulnerable. This could have been catastrophic, could have been be awkward. I could have stumbled out late for work and covered in shame with the one good thing I’ve found in Vancouver soiled and destroyed by a tipsy, lust-fired decision. I could have made myself ridiculous in the pursuit of the arrogant Hollywood heartthrob I met in the Fox corridor, one more notch on a well worn bedpost. But the man sitting across the room isn’t that guy. He’s just David. And he’s made me coffee, found out my call time and got me clothes. He wanted to kiss me awake. And all of that is somehow harder to cope with than rejection or shame or panic would have been. Because what I’m feeling now, mixed in with friendship, gratefulness and respect is something much more dangerous than the desire that drove me here last night. It’s something that exists in the same private space we create when we look at each other, a flash of pure white in a blurry world. It scares me and I look away.

I need to think so I’m relieved when David produces a towel and offers me his bathroom and a private moment. The hot water and steam offer some sanctuary from the intensity I’ve been feeling and I start to wash away my doubts and fears. I rationalise the force of my reactions to David’s small gestures as sleep deprivation, hormones and stress, shrinking them to a scale I can comprehend so that when I emerge I have regained control. This is what it is and there’s no need for me to freak out. We have a week left, a good friendship and if we can have some great sex on top of that then that’s all it needs to be. There are so many scenarios which would mean us never crossing paths again that anything beyond the immediate is irrelevant. Convinced of my own theory I cross to my coffee and take a swig as I start to rough dry my hair. David is head down in his closet, half dressed and seems to be searching for something.

“Gotcha!” He says triumphantly, punching the air with grey fabric clutched in his fist, grinning as he crosses to give it to me. I unfold the proffered garment to find a lurid print of a green, bug-eyed alien staring out at me from possibly the biggest t-shirt I have ever seen!

“My mother sent me this as a good luck gift. I’m hoping it’s her idea of a joke and that she doesn’t actually think I wear an XXXL.” he explains as I regard him with incredulity, “I thought it would do under your coat to get you to the car and you can keep it after. I… don’t have much cause to wear it.”

“But it’s so you!” I quip, pulling it on and discarding the now bedraggled robe in favour of the clean, David-scented shirt, however ridiculous it is. The monstrous garment finishes somewhere below my knees, drowning me in jersey and I can’t help but giggle at the spectacle, twirling slightly to watch the gaping sides balloon with air and striking a Madonna-worthy pose before dissolving into laughter at the expression on David’s face. He’s regarding the monster he’s created with a mix of bemusement and affection as he announces,

“I’m trying to work out how I can be so repulsed by what you’re wearing and attracted to you in the same moment. I just really don’t know what to do with you right now” so I answer him with a swift kiss before dragging myself away to put on my coat and finish my coffee. The ringing phone soon announces our ride and as we pile into the lift, leaning companionably on each other I decide I am glad that the night has ended like this; as light hearted and friendly as we began. I push down the voice inside me that recalls the intensity of him inside me, of the moments I lost sight of where I ended and he began and I prepare to face the day ahead.

* * *

We part ways on set unobserved, a clasped hand our only farewell and an unspoken agreement that what happened last night should stay between the two of us. I’m not sure exactly what the etiquette is for sleeping with your co-star but in a situation as precarious as mine I doubt it’s a point in the pro column.

The day’s shooting is jargon heavy and by lunchtime I’m wishing I’d gotten a proper night’s sleep. The long words and technical terms keep slipping sideways through holes in my memory and take after take is going to waste. As we break I turn for my trailer, desperate for a nap but with two pages of rewrites to learn for the afternoon and only fifty minutes before I have to be back in make-up. I barely make it six feet before a producer pulls me aside. In a low voice he tells me that I’m doing a great job but that we _have_ to make progress this afternoon and if there’s anything I can do to get the lines down, I should do it.

I nod and smile, apologising and promising to do better, to be prepared and I hold that positive facade in place until the door to my trailer clicks shut behind me. Then I crumple. I’m too tired to cry properly, too frustrated to be angry and so instead I just sit, back to the door, staring at the script and feel tears start to run down my face. I feel like I used to when I was a teenager in those helpless moments between making a bad choice and finding my fighting spirit; rebellion and responsibility both temporarily beyond my reach leaving me with nothing but a shell of myself around an empty sad space. I could have stayed there until I was called back. I could have stayed there forever. But a firm knock is followed by a draft of cold air as the door opens. I start to topple backwards but find strong hands under my arms and the solid presence of David, marching me to my sofa, handing me a coke and a sandwich and plopping his copy of our afternoon scene in the gap between us.

He ignores my wet face, not unkindly just focussed instead on the lines and radiating the energy I so desperately need right now. It occurs to me that I should be questioning his uninvited presence and what it means but I don’t. I understand that he's compartmentalising, that this is how he can help me right now. This is the same David who handed me the muffin on day one to break my mood, the one who wants me to do well so he can do well. It has nothing to do with last night and everything to do with this morning. After a couple of minutes and a much needed energy boost from the food I break the silence with the first line of the scene. We spend the remainder of lunch as Mulder and Scully, attaching meaning to each silence, learning the rhythm of our speeches and when the time comes to shoot I am word-perfect.

When we wrap for the day the same producer come over and tells me how impressed he was, how impressed they have all been by the characterisation, the professionalism and the chemistry showcased this afternoon. He doesn’t say “compared to this morning” and so I try not to hear the caveat in the compliment. David is across the set locked in a conversation with Chris Carter who gives me a big grin and a thumbs up and as I return it I again can’t help but note David’s place is, as always,  at the core of things while I spin out of control around the edges. And I’m beginning to understand it.

There’s something more about him than the typical actor’s trifecta of confidence, talent and charisma. Some deeply rooted intelligence and self-possession that pulls you in, making the warmth of David’s approval the sun and his support a kind a grounding influence. His actions today in my trailer prove how easy it would be to lose myself in him, personally and professionally, to succumb to his gravity. There’s a part of me that even wants to, to hide from the world in his room tonight, stumble through scenes in his wake. It would be so easy.

But as I walk out of the orbit of his presence I know that I won’t.

Under all of the layers of insecurity and doubt I’m still that same difficult kid who wants to do everything herself. Who would rather reinvent the wheel than jump on the bandwagon, even if the bandwagon is being driven by a handsome and seemingly great guy. Teen Gillian and scared Gillian might be willing to allow somebody else to fix things for them but grown-ass Gillian won't allow herself to need rescuing. It’s one thing to turn up at someone’s door and blur the lines between lover and friend but it’s another to have to rely on them to nail a scene down, to give them the power to make or break your day. I’m walking dangerously close to that line which means I need space and to be out of here before David comes looking for me and his face can get my vagina to talk me out of my decision. I need to make a full stop of an exit, a clear indicator that the co-dependence of the last 24 hours is over, that the space I have allowed him in my head is being reclaimed.

So I change fast and on my way out I slip a note under David’s door, thanking him for his help and his t-shirt and implying that I need some space, that I’ll be spending the evening on lines and a bath and myself. It’s the smart thing to do. Friendly and slightly detached, no cause for concern or reaction required. Sanity demands it be this way but even as I write out my declaration of independence I know that for all my good intentions I won't be able to completely stop myself from thinking about him tonight.


	8. Crossed Beams: Chapter 8 - Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last day of shooting on the pilot and things come to a head.

Our last day in Vancouver blows in on a cold wind adding an icy urgency to our already tense shooting schedule. We’ve been working 16-18 hours for the last few days, just to make sure we have everything we need but the list of loose ends doesn’t seem to have gotten any shorter. Come midnight this set-up turns back into a pumpkin whether we’re finished or not. Even Chris Carter, usually the unflappable centre of proceedings seems a little concerned that we’re not going to get this done and is pacing as the location people try to get the lighting and the leaves to behave themselves with only two hours between us the non-negotiable deadline of sunrise. 

I’m wearing two coats over my pantsuit and clutching a polystyrene cup of coffee but I’m still cold, jigging from one foot to the other in a vain attempt to be ready to sprint headlong through the forest in heels at the required moment. I’m concentrating on figuring out the best configuration of hands to cup to absorb every spare bit of warmth when a large figure envelops me from behind, arms looping around my shoulders and sending a small tsunami of scalding coffee over my fingers.

“Fucking hell David!” I’m indignant and damp but he’s unapologetic, pulling me back against him, chin to my ear. 

“Sorry G-Woman! I’m just trying to conserve heat and the hot water is all gone so you’re my best option.” His tone and posture are friendly, we’re huddled together like siblings on a snow day and the crew hardly give us a second glance but the second I stop thinking about the coffee spillage I’m painfully aware of the weight of him against me, the brush of his breath against my ear. The slow heat of memory burns across my body and I try to stiffen myself against it, to preserve the neat compartments that I have sorted my life into, especially those part of it that relate to David.

It’s a system that’s worked for the last week, clear lines that have enabled me to act with my colleague, laugh with my friend between takes and escape to my lover’s bed on the few nights we’ve had the energy to extend our day beyond shooting. I’ve made it clear that I have no expectations beyond what we’re doing in a given moment. I've kept the sex passionate and fun and have learned which moments run the risk of making me want more. If I avoid letting him wake me with coffee then I don't start to imagine lazy Sunday mornings in bed. If I run my lines alone in my room instead of his trailer then he can’t trace his fingers absent-mindedly up my arm and forever tie together in my memory the detail of that scene and the poetry of his hands on my skin. This job, whether it’s almost over or just beginning, is my first real chance to test myself as a working actress and I need to make it count as more than the setting of a small romance. I know that compartmentalising is the only way I can keep myself at the centre of what I’m doing and make the most of this experience before it’s all over. It keeps things tidy and means that whatever happens with the show I can leave Vancouver without regrets. And I am so close to making it without compromise.

But now I’m on set, a supposedly platonic setting, and he’s touching me. Not just a brush or a nudge but really touching me, flush to my back and arms drawing me in, his closeness stealing my breath and my reason. I need to move. But my frozen feet don’t obey my brain’s half-hearted instructions and so I stand there, staring at the steam rising from my cup as David settles against me, an almost inaudible hum of satisfaction deep in his throat as we dissolve into the same space. Between the shelter of his frame and the hard-beating of my heart the cold begins to recede, replaced by the black hole of our chemistry, pulling relentlessly at my independence and chipping away at my boundaries. The silence is full of unsaid things and so I break it with mundanity, my voice obeying where my body has failed.

“Can you believe it’s already the last day?” I'm quiet but steady. 

I feel rather than see him shrug.

‘I guess it has gone fast,’ he replies, ‘but based on the early feedback from the network I think it's probably not the last day.’

I try not to mind that as ever, he knows more than me and press for more information. My agent hasn't had anything to share with me and though the second half of the shoot had gone better I still worry that I may soon be back on unemployment while one of the girls from the audition wipes my Scully out of existence. 

‘What did you hear?’ I ask. ‘I thought that nothing gets decided until the final cut gets shown to network?’

‘It doesn't officially,’ he explains, ‘but word on the lot is that the brass are liking our rushes and the autumn schedule is looking light. Which should be really good news...I'll admit though that I'm still selling myself on the whole sci-fi thing.’

‘Agent Mulder! Are you telling me that you don't believe in aliens?!’ I can't help but tease him, the gap between his feeling on the paranormal and his character's could not be greater; David's face straight after one of Mulder’s big explanatory monologues is always a picture as he tries to shake off bizarre theories and reclaim some of his cool guy persona. 

‘Shut up Scully!’ is his stock response and he gets me back by squeezing me hard, lifting me slightly off balance and off my feet in a way he knows I hate. This time though the disaster is to more than my dignity as the half forgotten coffee jerks out of the cup and floods down my front and his leg where he's bracing it to lift me.

‘You fucking ass’ I yell indignantly as the hot liquid soaks through my coat and my trouser leg, staining the fabric dark and clinging clammily to my skin. The only silver lining is that it's forced him out of my space, tension defusing as he shakes his trousers leg hopelessly trying to shed the liquid. In the furore of the moment we don't notice the director coming over until the creative string of curse words I am flinging at my co-star is interrupted by his announcement.

‘I was just coming to let you know that we're going to be delayed here for at least another 45 minutes so you might want to go warm up, make sure your lines are down and be back in 40. And it looks like it's just as well, it'll give you a chance to clean up this mess.’ He gestures at the stain on David’s grey pants. His tone is a reprimand he leaves a slightly sheepish David and a more than slightly irate me his wake.

Without a word I spin on my heel and stride towards my trailer, crumpling my now empty cup in my hand as I become aware of loping strides easily keeping pace just behind me. My irritation and embarrassment at the spectacle are simmering under my skin, stirred further by the frustrated sexual tension and all the end of project feelings I am refusing to acknowledge. As I stoke the fire into a righteously burning anger I ignore a request from my pursuer to wait up and forge onwards, his persistence adding fuel to my fury. When we pass David’s trailer the footfalls keep coming and so as I reach my own door I turn, stepping up he two steps for a more even footing and I prepare myself for a fight.

‘Why are you following me Duchovny. Did you have something else to throw at me?’ I hiss at him, willing my eyes to shoot ice straight into his puppy dog stare.

He has the grace to look taken aback by the force of my reaction.

‘I knew you were annoyed at me so I wanted to make it right and apologise but you wouldn't stop’ he manages. 

‘I wanted to get out of my wet clothes David! And an apology can't unmake that sort of spectacle in a director’s eyes. So just take your bullshit apology and leave me alone!’ I'm harsh and I spit my words at him, adding poison to what should only be a simple rebuke. ‘I'm sure Rob won't remember your part in all this, it'll just be silly little Gillian fucking things up again. You'll probably almost laugh about it at your little private meetings with Chris and the gang once I'm officially recast.’

A tempest of emotion crosses his face as he takes in my accusations, my barrage of stored grievances and insecurities. I spy confusion and pity, understanding and irritation until it morphs into something I haven’t seen on him before. Anger.

‘Where the hell has all that come from? Is this why you've been acting so weird with me? You think I'm plotting behind your back to get you fired or something? Because that is beyond fucked up Gillian. I thought we were friends! I thought we talked about this sort of shit but apparently there's a whole side of you that I'm not seeing and frankly she seems batshit crazy.’ 

Our voices started quiet but now they're carrying and some shred of sanity in my head registers that a public screaming match is probably not a great idea so I sweep into my trailer, David hot on my heels and far from done with the conversation as he slams the door shut behind us hard enough to make the hinges rattle.

‘Maybe I am crazy David. This whole thing could make anyone crazy. I haven't slept properly in weeks, we work insanely long days, I spend hours longer than you in hair and makeup, my suits are itchy, the rewrites are endless and nobody tells me anything that makes me feel like it's going to be worth it in the end.’ And just like that it's all on the table. David takes one look at my case and sweeps it off with a furious accusation.

‘Then why the hell didn't you just tell me that? We spend all day every day together and.... some nights and... I could have done something to help!’

‘What could you have done to help David?!’ I’m quieter now but hard-voiced to hide the cracks in my question.

‘I could have listened. I could’ve. … I don't know what right now but I would have found some way to help.’ The anger is beginning to drain out of him now and the look on his face is one that goes straight to the core of me. A genuine concern that tugs at something deep and reminds me exactly why I have to set boundaries, why I couldn't let him become my support system. I am done following guys around.

‘You're sweet to say that.’ I tell him firmly. ‘But I need to be able to figure stuff out in my own. I don't need you to fix everything for me. I'll never find my place here if you do.’

And I think finally he begins to understand, stepping back and seeing not just the person he thinks he knows but the person she's trying to become. At least I hope that's what he sees in the mess standing before him trying to be a convincingly whole adult.

Eventually he nods, questions and contradictions rushing through his eyes but held back for now, seeming to acknowledge that in the last few minutes I have given up more than I had planned to. That now is not the time to argue. My angry words have revealed a glimpse at my closely guarded thoughts and there is nothing that can be said or done to repair that breach. He has seen a part of me that I don’t like to show and his thoughtful silence is a kindness my outburst doesn’t necessarily deserve. 

Unable to handle the intensity of his look anymore, unwilling to speak and dig myself and my messed up philosophy further into a hole I turn away and start removing my wet clothes, cranking up the radiator and hanging my jacket over it. I hesitate before unbuttoning my pants, it’s the first time I’ve undressed in front of David without it being inherently sexual but I’m so exposed already that a few less layers of fabric won't make a difference. Shivering slightly in my panties and camisole I grab the blanket from my bed and sit down, making myself small and not looking over to where I know David is still standing. After a few moments I hear rustling and footsteps, he’s crossing into my eyeline and I see from his bare calves that he is following suit, hanging his pants over a chair and pushing them against the heater. The bed dips as he sits next to me and pulls his long legs up, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth as he wavers between giving me space and offering his closeness.

I watch the hairs on his legs rise as the cold begins to soak into him and I respond involuntarily, still not speaking as I unfurl one side of my cocoon and wordlessly invite him inside. He doesn’t hesitate, sliding in close as I turn slightly away and he fits himself to the curve of my back.  I cling to the arm he has wrapped around my midriff and push myself closer into him, the hard of his chest and the angles of his face against my hair. We stack like russian dolls, made perfectly to fit together and I wish I could allow myself to disappear inside him, to stop fighting for some elusive idea of me and just accept being part of this unit.

But I can’t. I tell myself that I can’t even as I feel him stir against my buttocks and I move against him, comfort turning to something more heady. I remind myself of my fight for self-determination as I move his hand from my stomach to my breast, sliding my camisole up and arching my body to bring my nipple against his willing fingers. My legs open without my permission, one hooking back over his leg to bring him closer to the core of me, to fit the final piece to the puzzle of limbs. Fabric slides aside and he eases home, my body crying out from the fullness that is his cock and my head crying out that this, us here on set sharing an intensely intimate moment, is a boundary I should not be breaking.

And then my struggle is lost to the driving rhythm of David inside me. The staccato of my breath and the sliding scales of his fingers on my clitoris replace the uncertain silence with the sounds of our bodies in duet. I remember that the door is unlocked so I bite down on my upper arm to stop from calling out and feel David muffling his groans on my shoulder as my free hand runs laps from his balls back to his asshole. I’m glad that he can’t see my face as my climax approaches because I can feel my last vestiges of control slip away as his pace increases. If we were face to face he’d be able to see my surrender in my eyes, to taste it on my lips.  I pour all of my need into the roll of my hips forcing him deeper into me as we fall together from the peak and into boneless pleasure. We lie a while entwined and still silent, my back still to him, a pretence of distance that is made ridiculous by our reluctance to disengage from the moment or to re-engage our brains. As the pounding of blood in my ears diminishes the click of the clock reminds me that there is more at stake than my dignity or this relationship. 

We’re back on set at the allotted time, the director running his eyes once over my dry, presentable suit and nodding his approval, unaware of the rumpled mess underneath. The schedule of the day is relentless and forces me out of my head and into the moment, David is Mulder and I am Scully and that is all that there is time for. When we wrap with three minutes to spare a cheer goes up and euphoria sweeps the set. Hands are shaken and hugs doled out and Chris assures us that we will all be back, that drinks are on him at the bar the crew frequents. When the adrenaline fades I am empty and full. I want to be alone and I want to be the centre of attention and I want to be with David. This is why I set boundaries. Because I am incapable of keeping anything fucking simple. Impulsive Gillian has reared her head and set romance against practicality and responsibility and the rest of me is furious at her.

I tell them I want to shower, that I need a moment and will meet them there. I don’t meet David’s eyes when he yells that he’ll order me a glass of wine. Back at the hotel I make quick work of throwing my belongings into my case and by the time the second round has been bought I am at the airport, spending the first part of my X-Files paycheck on a red-eye back to L.A.

As I brace for takeoff I tell myself that it’s easier this way, that I have things to do, meetings to set up, an apartment to rent. I tell myself that this was always my plan. Mostly I tell myself to stop wondering if he has noticed that I haven’t shown, if he would come knocking at my door later that night and find me gone. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I tell myself that next time, if there is a next time, I will find a another way and be a better actress and a better version of myself. A version that doesn’t just screw things up and run away.

And then I run away.


	9. Crossed Beams: Chapter 9 - Hiatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pilot has wrapped and Gillian is back in LA and in limbo awaiting news on the series progress. An invitation to an industry party seems to offer new opportunities but is met with an old complication.

**** I step out of the tepid shower on to the mat and glance around for a towel before realising they’re all bundled up in the laundry basket. Not that it matters, the L.A. heat will have me dry in minutes and sweaty again in an hour. Wringing water from my hair I observe the inch of brown root visible in the watered down Scully red, if I make it back up to Vancouver I’ll be needing another makeover.

I’ve been trying not to dwell on it all, to live in the moment and make the most of the energy and the momentary financial security that the X-Files pilot has given me. Whether the show is picked up or not I have finally made a small wave in my career and my agency are suddenly falling over themselves to support me, to send me roles and information and introduce me at industry parties. I try to be grateful though it rubs my inner rebel the wrong way to accept their fawning after the year of disinterest that preceded it but I know that it’s just the way of this world. So I’m playing nice and hanging on, allowing them to fill my days and keep my mind away from everything I left in Vancouver.

With distance I’ve found some clarity. I wish now that I’d been brave enough to go to the wrap party, for the crew and for myself though I still believe that getting away from David was for the best. I haven’t seen or heard from him since that day and I’m not surprised. My behaviour was erratic and impulsive and every time I think back to that last day I feel a wash of embarrassment, arousal and irritation at how thoroughly I exposed my weaknesses. It was me who marched to his room and demanded a physical relationship and it was me who made sweeping statements about what it could and couldn’t be. It was also me who cracked, who assigned motives and hurled accusations. I still don’t entirely understand what it was we were doing or what he made of it all but away from his presence in a town full of distraction I can convince myself that it was a flirtation caught in a friendship and that David will chalk my outburst up to stress. It’s the only way we can go back to just working together should X-Files be greenlit with me as Scully.

I really fucking hope that’s what he’s been thinking. If he’s thought of it at all. If he’s thought of me at all. I shake myself, today is not a day for a pity party and I need to get it together! Just draw a line under the whole thing and move on to whatever’s next and pretend that I haven’t given David Duchovny and Fox the power to make my next seven years really, really uncomfortable.

It could still all come to nothing though, the May scheduling deadline is fast approaching and with my emotions truly mixed on my future with X-Files I am not going to sit still, freak out and watch the phone. Instead I have agreed to attend a party with a virtual stranger. My agent encouraged it, the guy, Alan, is some Hollywood up-and-comer who I met at an indie premier and he seemed pleasant enough that an evening among the movers and shakers on his arm is preferable to a night spent alone doing laundry. Clean towels on demand might actually be the thing I miss most about Vancouver!

Flipping through my wardrobe I select a plain t-shirt dress and pull out an oversize denim shirt to go over it. At the start of my time in L.A. I’d spend hours picking out something but I was fast learning that if it wasn’t black-tie anything went and against the leggy Hollywood types anything tight or dressy was only going to look ridiculous on my short frame. My mom had laughed when I called her last week and told her I’d seen a well known actress in an outfit not dissimilar to what I was wearing the night my rebellious teen self had ended up in the police station for a mug shot! Dressing quickly I spend a few minutes with concealer and mascara before deciding I can’t really be bothered. The L.A. sun has found my freckles and the amount of makeup it would take to cover them will only melt off in the heat. Ditto my hair, blowouts and humidity are bad bedfellows. I look at myself in the mirror and giggle slightly, I look about twelve, all natural curls and freckles and I suspect my date is going to be surprised if he shows up looking for the satin clad, smoky-eyed woman he met last week. With an hour to kill I open a bottle of white wine and settle in front of the TV, rolling my eyes at the cheesy plot of whatever soap comes on and thinking that I could probably do worse than chase aliens.

When the doorbell rings I am halfway through the bottle and pleasantly tipsy, though not tipsy enough that I don’t notice Alan’s double take at my appearance. He’s in slacks and looking preppy as hell so as he recovers and tells me I look nice I abandon the sandals I had planned to wear and instead pull on my ratty combat boots. He notices and asks me if I’m getting on board with the new grunge style and I nod and smile sweetly, thinking to myself that neither the style or the rebellion is particularly new to me.

Polite conversation lasts us the ride and about fifteen minutes of the party which is loud and exactly what I was expecting. After introducing me to a group of acquaintances and handing me a glass of wine my date disappears and I spot him fifteen minutes later talking intently with a pretty brunette who I recognise from a popular commercial. I sip my wine and allow the conversation to swirl around me, snippets of gossip and non-announcements combine into a meaningless drone of empty promises and self-promotion. I last an hour without having to say much more than my name and a few empty pleasantries about how interesting so-and-so’s new venture sounds, for all my earlier energy I’m not inclined to work the room and I’m not dressed to command attention without trying. As I look about for an exit and go to put my glass down a commotion at the other end of the group I’m standing with sends a familiar voice down to me on a ripple of nervous energy. 

I stare at my drink as the introductions work their way towards me. Producers and writers smugly introduce themselves to three deep, male voices and then the feet of the person next to me turn and I know I’ve missed my chance to run.

‘And this is…’ I realise that the man trying to introduce me has forgotten my name but can’t find my voice to help him out. ‘This is... Jennifer? She’s an actress too,’’ he finishes. 

I don’t correct him, extending my hand to the two handsome young actors who regard me with cordial interest before turning slightly to start a conversation with the man next to me who I think is some sort of hot-shot show developer. I fight the urge to look around for David, I know he’s here somewhere, I heard his voice and his introductions and even if I hadn’t I can feel that he’s close by the tight knot of nerves in my stomach. I try to focus on the conversation beside me hoping it will drown out the static hum of anticipation but it’s no use and when I catch a breath of David’s aftershave I glance over my shoulder and find his gaze waiting, pulling me after him towards the bar.

It’s busy and loud and his confidence carries him to the front while I catch in the crush of people waiting for a drink. We haven’t spoken or done anything more than share a brief, heated glance and already I’m off balance, the wine I have drunk fizzing to the end of my fingers and giving reality an odd shine. And then we’re back in motion again, David with two glasses and me in his wake, threading through the strangers until we’re away from the party in a side room where the music is dull and the lights are dim. He leans against the wall and hands me a glass, whiskey that burns a streak of clarity through the haze of the wine as surely as the darkness in his gaze did before. I wait for him to break the silence. For the first time in our acquaintance he has taken control and I am curious to see if this changes things. 

‘It’s nice to meet you  _ Jennifer _ .’ I was not expecting that. Not the name or the suggestion in his voice. He extends his hand to me, ‘I’m David Duchovny.’

I hesitate in accepting the hand, knowing that the contact will strip away my reason and unsure if I want to play his game. And then his tongue darts out to capture a bead of the liquor that has caught on his lip and my breath catches and my hand is in his.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr Duchovny.’ I tell him. I make my voice breathy, a stereotypical barbie sweetness and don’t let go of his hand instead moving in to tell him the clichéd Hollywood wannabe line that always seems to work on the kinds of guys he’s here with tonight. ‘I’m a huge fan of your work.’

‘Oh really!’ His eyes glint in the half-light and I know if I could see them they’d be the deep brown of desire. I nod, still clutching his hand as the distance between us fades to the depth of our grip, his hard stomach pressed to my hand and his knuckles grazing the bottom of my ribcage, just slightly lower than I want his touch. His voice is hardly more than a breath, husky with intention, ‘Well that’s too sweet of you Jennifer. Maybe I can help you make some….connections for your acting.’ As his voice trails off I feel his free hand ghost the outline of my head and body, millimetres of crackling energy between me and his movement. I dip my head to one side and hold his gaze, just barely catching my lip in my teeth and am rewarded with his stare snapping to my mouth and his breath hitching. 

‘And what would I have to do for you to do that Mr D-’ is all I manage before his hand is in my hair, tugging me to him until his mouth connects with the soft spot under my ear, rough stubble and sharp teeth on my bare skin. I release his hands and slide mine under the snug fabric of his t-shirt, fingernails digging into the tight skin of his abdomen and scraping up and down, dipping barely under the waist of his jeans until he juts his hips out to me and I feel the hard evidence of my effect on him. His mouth has worked my shirt and dress off my shoulder and left a dark mark where his teeth are now worrying my bra strap. Half aware of the proximity of the party I push him off me and revel in the hungry frustration of his sigh before casting around and spotting the tell-tale plaque of a bathroom metres away. Turning my back to him I ease my shirt off the other shoulder and drop it down my arms as I walk towards the bathroom, it turns out that Jennifer is kind of an exhibitionist and it seems to be working for her.

We’re hardly inside when David is back on me, pressing me into the cold tiled wall even as I fumble the lock closed, tugging at my fallen shirt which hasn’t made it all the way inside. But then I forget the shirt as hands run up my thighs and push my skirt around my waist before moving back down and sliding my underwear over my hips to tangle around my feet. He kisses me once on the mouth and then drops to his knees in front of me, barely pausing before his mouth finds my clit and his fingers are dancing in the wetness he’s already created between my legs. I hiss at the onslaught of sensation, cold wall at my back and warm mouth on my core, unexpected pleasure pushing all reason out of my mind as I tangle my fingers in his hair and pant his name. His tongue is as urgent as my need and as his fingers fill me me, beckoning against the sweet spot inside that so many struggle to find. When the tension reaches breaking point time stops and I lose my words and my grip on reality, knees buckling as pleasure boils over in the pit of my stomach and then rushes to my extremities as liquid electricity and a desperate cry.

For a second I join him, panting on the floor and I want to run my fingers over the angles of his face and commit them to memory all over again. But then I see the hunger in his eyes and the shine of my wetness on his chin and I forget tenderness in the face of my need to undo him. In our previous encounters he has not let me taste him, preferring to take his pleasure inside me but in this setting, playing at being strangers I feel powerful and I know what I want. Grabbing him by the hair I pull him to me, tasting myself on his face as I layer kisses on the rough planes of his face and neck. I bite at his throat as I pull him up, one hand pushing him against the wall and the other dropping to unfasten his fly and push down his pants. I feel him shudder as the air finds his cock and I grin and bite hard at one of his nipples through his t-shirt. He swears, ‘Fuck Gi-’ and I smother his words with my mouth and reprimand him with my eyes.

‘I’m not Gillian tonight,’ I remind him and then I drop to my knees.

I wait just a moment as I take in his hardness at this close angle, a second too long it seems as David groans impatiently and pushes his hips forward in desperation, dragging the tip of his cock across my cheek. I stifle a giggle and give up on the torture, eager to finally taste him before he gets bored and tries to bend me over the sink. I run a fingertip down the prominent vein on the underside of him and weigh his balls in my hand. He’s perfect I think to myself, as I grip the base of him, as much as I still refuse to believe any penis is “beautiful” I can’t deny that I am impressed by and desirous of what he is packing. And right now I want it as far down my throat as I can take it.

I start slow, just the tip of my tongue and it tastes as good as it feels. Musk and salt and leather and David in a package that almost vibrates at first contact. I look up at him as I suck in my cheeks and begin to slide down and he meets my eyes for just a second before the head hits the back of my throat and I hum. That’s when his eyes roll back and his hands tangle in my hair, not forcing me down but telling me in no uncertain terms that I’m exactly where he wants me to be. And so I start to move. One hand on his balls, one pumping the shaft and topped off by the wet heat of my mouth, drawing back as far as I dare to let the cool air make him miss me and then swallowing him again. His girth is too much for me to take deeper at this angle but I swallow every time he bottoms out, knowing that he’ll feel the flutter against his sensitive head and that the sensation will drive him mad. He lasts longer than I expect, groaning and twisting my hair as his climax approaches and finally dropping one hand to my hollow cheek as he tries wordlessly to communicate what I can already tell from his movements. And then it’s over, my name on his lips as his hips arch in a frantic rhythm and my mouth fills with his cum. I feel like I recognise his taste, it’s like a concentration of the David smell I have never quite been able to identify, something inherently him. I manage not to spill any and as his hands relax on my head I release him and stand to meet his gaze.

There’s something in this moment. Some sort of honesty about what we want that the setting and the speed has stopped us from shying away from. Something that we might never have known if we hadn’t found ourselves standing in this bright bathroom him in just a t shirt and me with my dress bunched around my waist, both of us with the taste of the other in our mouths. Tonight has been a simple transaction, no fight or feelings to drive us on beyond what we want in the moment and though the time in the bathroom is running out I feel like the night may just be beginning.

David opens his mouth, eyes clear and then there’s a banging at the door. Loud voices that I recognise as belonging to the guys he arrived with.

‘Yo! Duke! Time to go! You in there with some girl? There’s clothes hanging halfway out the door you dog!.’

He flinches a little, whether at the disruption or the nickname I can’t tell and when he looks back at me I can see his guard has gone back up.

‘I have to go.’ he tells me, his tone flat. ‘If you stay out of sight of the door I’ll pass your shirt back in and make these guys leave. It’s probably best that they don’t know what happened because eventually they'll work out who you are and that will really get the rumor mill going.’

I nod tersely at the practicality, knowing that causing a scene will only make things worse and this is the best resolution we can now hope for before pulling my dress back into place and looking around for my panties. I have to go around David to get to them and he steps back to give me a wide berth even as he grapples with his jeans. The pounding and yelling outside starts back up, lewder than before and the second we are presentable and I am out of sight David is out of the door, one foot sliding my shirt back into the room. I hold my breath until the door is shut again and let it out in a defeated sigh as I hear him join in the banter, dismissing the “mystery” girl in the bathroom as just some chick “Joanne or something”, and agreeing to leave with them.

As their voices fade I cross and relock the door, picking up my crumpled shirt and laying it over my arms. Crossing to the sink I splash water on my face and down my neck, pulling up my collar to cover the my vulnerability and the purple marks of David’s mouth on my collarbone. Cupping my hands I pour the tepid, metallic tasting water into my mouth in a desperate attempt to wash away the taste of what has just happened and to regain the calm I had achieved. 

I catch sight of myself in the mirror and where earlier today I saw a young woman comfortable in her skin I now see someone hopelessly young and naive, dressed up in a too big shirt; whose wild hair and freckled, innocent face instantly explain the circumstances that led her to be discarded and alone at a party for the bold and the beautiful. I reach into my pocket and pull out my mascara hoping to rebuild the disguise but I hardly open it before I decide that is enough is enough. Slipping from the room and back into the dimness of the party I find a side door to slip out of and walk until I can hail a cab to take me home.


End file.
